


Shell Shocked

by chibimono



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Nightmares, Nostalgia, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers (2012), Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Friendship, Steve Rogers-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25086136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibimono/pseuds/chibimono
Summary: Out of the ice, Steve Rogers was a long way from home. He's slowly shown his way back.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Kudos: 12





	Shell Shocked

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written after first viewing of Captain America: First Avenger in the theaters. Posted a year later to livejournal and tumblr.  
> It was going to cover Steve meeting all the Avengers, but I never got around to finishing it. Stands alone well as it is.

It was awkward, looking at the faces in front of him, but he wasn’t going to let them know it. He was in a bunker, sitting at a table with the director of a government agency known as SHIELD and the son of a man he knew a week ago. No, almost seventy years... So much time...  
  
“Tony Stark, meet the Super Soldier of yesteryear, the Iron Man of World War II,” Fury gestured at Steve. It was especially off-putting looking at the face of a man he knew (used to know? had known?) and it was really the man’s son--grown son, probably older now than his father when Steve knew him, if you could believe that.  
  
Stark just blinked, elbow propped on the table with his chin in his hand. It was the posture of a bored man, but Steve could see in his eyes the same focus that Stark--Howard--used to get when working on a new project.  
  
“I, uh, worked with your father. He was an interesting man,” Steve started, not sure what he was saying other than reaching out for some connection he actually knew.  
  
“Yeah, he’s wonderful,” Stark--Tony--shrugged, brushing the comment off like it was an annoying speck of dust on his blazer. He was leaning forward now, though, folding his hands on the table and zeroing in the focus on Steve’s face. “Look, sixty-six years is a damn long time to be napping. And while you’re pretty much in perfect physical shape there, beefcake, you’ve lost a lot of time, missed out on a veritable metric shitstorm of technology. A war is moving in, and we’ve got to work the culture shock out of you before it hits.”  
  
“I didn’t even get to see the end of the last war I was in,” Steve realized with a quiet murmur.  
  
“Well, we won, if it wasn’t obvious to you,” Stark said flippantly, pushing his chair back from the table. “Now, I’m a busy man, I’ve got work to do. So let’s get this crash course moving.”  
  


*****

  
  
Apparently Stark’s actual home, in Malibu, had recently been destroyed by a rowdy birthday party, which explained the un-lived in quality of the Stark estate in New York that Steve was moved to. Over a dozen rooms, and most of them full of ghostly covered furniture and dusty spiderwebs. The mansion was around when he lived in New York as a child, he’d even walked by it several times. All these years later, it was still there, probably with the same furniture in some rooms--furniture as old as he was. Oh god, almost seventy years? Seventy?  
  
Everyone he knew, everyone! Gone. His comrades, Colonel Phillips, Howard, Peggy... Did they survive the war? Did they get to grow old and die? Were they happy? Why didn’t he just... Why did he get to survive, to come back after all this time?  
  
A voice chimed around him, startling him into realizing he had sunken to his knees in a heap quite some time ago. “Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark is waiting for you in the parlor to begin your training.”  
  
Steve looked around for a person, but found no one. “Hello...?”  
  
“Hello, Captain Rogers,” the voice came again. “I apologize for not introducing myself before. I am JARVIS, a sentient AI system that monitors the mansion for Mr. Stark.”  
  
“A what?” Steve frowned.  
  
“I believe Mr. Stark would be better at explaining it.”  
  
“Sure...”  
  


*****

  
  
The lingering impression of cold--frozen muscles, burning lungs, stinging flesh, and the unbearable lonely feeling of never going home--haunted him even through the sweat of the nightmare. He pulled on a shirt, long sleeves, to stop the chill of sweat as he stumbled down the hall to a service stairwell, then into the kitchen. He pulled open the fridge for a bottle of water, balking at the air as it hit his face. He just wanted something to wet his dry, panting mouth, not thinking as he tipped back the bottle and gagged as the cold water rushed his throat. Fear broke over him for a moment, lurching up from his stomach and into the sink. Steve staggered from the kitchen, into the rest of the house.  
  
The silence isn’t quite soundless, with the house settling and creaking in its age. A particular groan, like an air duct warping from a temperature change, tripped Steve’s mind headlong into the memory of the airship--metal pinging and groaning from contracting, freezing over. He closed his eyes and felt himself sway, remembering briefly waking against cold, his head in pain, everything so numb, his breath a biting cloud of ice in his lungs. The cold took him back under just as fast as unconsciousness after the crash.  
  
The darkness of the estate crashed into him, left him reeling in the foyer. He felt lost in the quiet and chill of the empty house. He thought about yelling (maybe Stark would hear him) but he was sure he’d just be answered by that bodiless voice and that made his blood run cold at the thought. He made for the door instead, pushing his feet into a pair of boots he had left by the entryway, and foundered his way out into the summer’s night.  
  
He’d take a walk, he’d run, anything to shake the frigid and empty feelings. New York never slept, even now (maybe somethings never change) and he moved through the streets like a man on a mission. Maybe he looked crazy, wild-eyed and frenzied, but seeing people and feeling the humidity weighing down against his clothing began to anchor him. The streets were well lit and in a few blindly turned corners, Steve found himself along Fifth Avenue and the edge of Central Park. He moved aimlessly along, watching the cars and few pedestrians drift by him--or maybe he drifted by them. The sights and smells were different; the night sky was a sickly orange-purple cloud of overcast, with no stars in sight and the air choking and heavy from summer heat and pollution. He sweated it out with his sweatpants and long sleeved shirt, holding on to the heat in hopes it would burn the chill out of his bones.  
  
A scream seemed to pull Steve back from the brink of frostbite and he moved to the sound, reaching for--there’s no shield with him, not now. His eyes found the source: a woman with her purse being snatched, just a few blocks ahead of him. His strides were long and he’s there in moments, closing the distance between him and the thief.  
  
“Hey!” Steve yelled, the sound like a bark, louder than he thought would come from him. The thief turned to find he was being followed, cursed, and tried to pick up the pace. Steve was on him within a block and a half, tackling the guy to the concrete.  
  
“You trying to be a fuckin hero!?” the thug shouted, fumbling in his jacket for a weapon as Steve tried to pin him into submission.  
  
“You have no idea,” Steve ground out, yanking the thief face first against the ground to hold his hands behind his back. He looked around, hoping someone was calling the police with their phone eyes or whatever they had. Instead, he found a car pulling up along the sidewalk. A man in a suit exited the driver’s side, speaking on his phone, and circled the car to where Steve could easily see him. It took Steve a moment to recognize the agent.  
  
“Coulson... right?”  
  
“That would be me, Captain Rogers,” Coulson nodded as he folded his phone and put it away in his jacket. He motioned with his hand, and another agent climbed out the passenger side. “The authorities have been called. We’ll have this handled. In the meantime, we need to get you back to Stark’s estate.”  
  
Steve looked at the man pinned below him and back up to the agents. He hesitated a moment to let the man go, and as soon as his hands were freed, the thug began fumbling again for his weapon in his jacket. He was stopped short by a pop, wires fired from a device in the second agent’s hand to pierce the thief’s shirt, and started convulsing.  
  
“What are you doing?” Steve shouted, moving to dislodge the wires.  
  
Agent Coulson grabbed his arm, calm and collected. “It’s a taser, nothing that leaves permanent damage. We need to go. The Director isn’t too happy you’ve breached the perimeter without permission.”  
  
Steve let himself be herded into the back seat of the car, watching out the windows as they pulled away. The lady approached for her purse as the agent let the thief flop about, and blue lights flashed as the police approached. Steve touched the window, cool from the car’s air conditioner, and frowned at the thought of returning to a cold, empty mansion.  
  


*****

  
  
"You should see your face," Stark said, snapping Steve's attention from the TV. Steve has no idea how long Stark had been sitting there. He seemed to be popping up a lot more lately since Steve’s night adventure.  
  
"I've got the thousand-mile stare, I'm guessing?" Steve asked, looking over the remote for a pause button.  
  
Stark hummed. "If that's what you want to call it. It’s a look most kids get staring at the TV."  
  
"So, is this how they raise children now? Instead of chores, books, and playing in the streets? Just sit them in front of a television?"  
  
"No better babysitter. Parents are already paying a cable bill. Just let them watch _Jersey Shore_ and _So You Think You Can Dance_."  
  
Steve looked around the mostly uncovered room. The sofa and lounges were moved around to face a wall TV. The pictures that were on the wall were discarded about the room, sitting against untouched bookshelves or furniture covered with dusty sheets.  
  
And Stark sat there on the lounge across from Steve, with an electronic typewriter on his lap and that phone tooth in his ear. Probably working, if he wasn’t staring at Steve like he was the focus of his current project.  
  
"Doesn't anyone spend time with each other anymore?"  
  
“You see, that’s what’s funny,” Stark said, leaning against the armrest, his elbow propped there and put his chin on his thumb, his fingers brushing his styled mustache. “This is the age of information, or so they say. People are connected now more than ever. They can sit in the same room and never say a word, but hold whole conversations on their phones with each other.”  
  
Steve isn’t sure if that should make sense to him. “But why would they do that? Why not just talk face to face?”  
  
“Makes it harder to argue back, or at least that’s why I do it,” Stark shrugged. “Kids these days. So are all the questions because you’re tired of being cooped up in this shabby hellhole? I know I am. Let me show you how people spend time now. Jarvis?”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Stark,” came the voice from the walls. Now that Steve knew it wasn’t actually a person, but a computer program, it kind of made his skin crawl.  
  
“We have anything presentable for Rogers here to wear? He needs to join me on a field trip. Supervised field trip.”  
  
“Field trip...?” Steve wasn’t sure he was ready for this.  
  


*****

  
  
Steve never did get that dance. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it now. This wasn’t dancing, anyway. Steve watched the people moving on the dance floor, with lights flickering and a booming sound, like rapid mortars launching. Moving, grinding, rutting, and flailing. The closest he’d ever seen people on the dance floor was a slow dance of swaying, kinda like a hug. This was like... having... sex. In public. Steve swallowed hard and looked away, only for his eyes to fall on... breasts. Steve cleared his throat and darted his eyes somewhere else. Oh, breasts. Uh. And legs. He couldn’t even look at the floor, the skirts were so short and just... legs. He'd seen pinup girls wearing more.  
  
Stark was pulling him through the crowd of bodies, looking over a pair of sunglasses--Steve thought it was rather odd to be wearing them indoors at night. “You want to have a drink? Let’s have a drink.” A drink wasn’t going to help, couldn't help, even if he wanted it to. And he was sure he just touched that lady’s rear. He hadn’t meant to and wanted to apologize, but the sounds were too loud and Steve would lose Stark. He turned and looked anyway, if only to just say sorry, and the lady just smiled at him with a look so filthy and licked her lips. Steve's mouth went dry.  
  
"I'm, uh. I didn't mean-" he started, but lost his voice when the dame grabbed at his shirt and pulled him in.  
  
"Fuck, you're sexy," she growled as she moved in close and started wiggling against him. He didn’t know where to put his hands to push her away, didn’t know if this was even appropriate. He was grateful it only lasted a second before Stark was pulling him away.  
  
"I can't take my eye off you for a second, there, Adonis," Stark smirked as they slide into a private booth. "If I'm not careful, someone other than me will be taking you home. Not that you’re really my type. But if we lost you again, Fury would be, well, furious.” Stark quirked an eyebrow at his own comment. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it? It is hot in here, but I’m thinking it’s just you. Feeling okay there, big guy?"  
  
Steve wasn’t so sure. He felt awkward, uncomfortable surrounded by all the hedonism, his face burning. He wondered if Bucky had ever been to a place like this, had girls like this with so little clothes, so little propriety--but he squashed those thoughts, pushing them away as hard as he could. He let his eyes drift back out to the frantic pulse of the crowd, and dart right back to Stark.  
  
“What... is this?” Steve asked, but he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know. He could see people in a booths across the way; three people passing a straw around to sniff powder off the table, a couple writhing together. Steve looked away, his face felt like it was flaming.  
  
A waitress showed up with drinks--Steve didn’t even noticed when Stark ordered them--and smiled at them both. Stark waved her off with a large bill and took a sip of his scotch before answering, looking at him over those silly glasses. “For some people, this is freedom.”  
  
“Invading other people’s personal space is freedom?” Steve wondered incredulously, watching the swarm move from the corner of his eye as he took a sip of his own amber drink. He didn’t bother telling Stark it wouldn't have an effect on him.  
  
“Compared to the somewhat Puritan times from which you hail? Sex is freedom,” Stark grinned, rakish with his dark and styled mustache and goatee. He tipped his drink to Steve. “Unfortunately for you, you missed the Baby Boom after the war. I’m thinking you probably wouldn’t be so shocked if you had your chance at that.”  
  
Steve remembered reading about it, how everyone came home from fighting to start families, own homes, and, well, make babies, apparently. He thought of Peggy and his insides twisted--what would that date have led to?  
  
“Captain America married to Mrs. America and having kids. You know, I’m not sure I really want to think about that,” Stark was still talking. Steve was pretty sure he had diarrhea of the mouth, as Colonel Phillips would say. “If you ever got married, virgins across the homefront would have committed mass suicides. I could have, theoretically, never been born, and that would, you know, kind of suck.”  
  
Frowning uncomfortably, Steve fought back a blush. “There wouldn’t be mass suicides or any suicides. That’s just crazy,” Steve defended.  
  
“America loved you, Rogers,” Stark said, his eyes focusing heavily on Steve’s face again. “I don’t think you really understand the heartbreak the country went through at losing you.”  
  
“I’m just... was just a man doing his duty,” Steve said, probably not loud enough for Stark to hear.  
  
Not that it mattered as two women practically climbed upon Stark at just that moment.  
  
“Tony Stark!”

“It’s Iron Man!”

They squealed, giggling and bouncing in their practically non-existent dresses.

“We see you on TV all the time!”

“You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen!”  
  
Stark was calm and cool, settling his scotch down and smiling like a dirty devil. The girls never even glanced at Steve and he suddenly felt like that scrawny, little guy from Brooklyn again.  
  
“I’m glad to see I have such,” Stark looked over the frames of his glasses, pointedly at the girls’ chests, the cad, “enthusiastic fans.” They laughed and jiggled for Stark, and Steve had to take a sip of scotch to wet his dry mouth.  
  
“Ladies, it is very nice to meet you,” Stark was all business and smiles. “But I’m having an important moment with a friend here. If you don’t mind, I’ll sign something for you and then I’ll have to send you on your way.”  
  
They spotted Steve and he feels like a deer caught in headlights. He wanted to melt under the table as they smiled and batted their eyelashes at him.  
  
“Who’s your friend?” the one dame asked as her friend was getting Stark to sign her chest.  
  
“Um, Steve. Steve Rogers.” He thought he might have asked more than said, his voice feeling like it may have cracked there on the last syllable.  
  
“Hi, Steve Rogers,” smiled the girl with Stark’s name to the right of her cleavage. “You want to sign me, too?”  
  
Steve was sure his face was on fire. His ears definitely felt like they were burning. Stark easily came to his rescue, probably used to handling crowd control.  
  
“Girls, my friend here is a little new to the area,” Stark is smiling something devious. “I know we’d all like to show him a good time, but I think he’d rather get settled in first.”  
  
The ladies pouted and cooed their pity, but then they’re giggling again and writing numbers on napkins. One of them actually pushed her napkin to Steve. “Call me sometime,” she smiled, biting her bottom lip. Steve swallowed hard.  
  
They flounced away, leaving Steve feeling like a wreck. Stark just grinned at him behind his scotch and sunglasses.  
  
“Are the dames always this, uh...”  
  
“Forward?” Stark supplied the word for him and nodded, looking like he was trying not to laugh. Steve was worried his face would never stop burning.  
  


*****

  
  
Steve’s poking through one of the abandoned rooms, cleaning out of boredom, when the mellow tones of the robotic voice grabbed his attention.  
  
“Captain Rogers?” it asked, like it was seeking him out. Steve knew it knew full well where he was. It didn’t stop Steve from freezing like he was caught red-handed.  
  
“Um. I’m here.”  
  
“It appears Agent Coulson is at the front entrance. He’s asking for you, sir. Shall I let him in?”  
  
Steve frowned. This wasn’t his home to make decisions, and unfortunately, Stark was out on a business meeting. But it would be nice to talk to someone, if only for a few minutes. Steve wasn’t exactly sure how Stark could talk to Jarvis all the time like he was a real person.  
  
“Is it... okay that he comes in?” Steve asked, feeling like a child for it.  
  
“Certainly, sir. Mr. Stark was hoping you would be comfortable enough to call the estate home during your stay here. If you wish for Agent Coulson to enter, then I shall allow him entrance.”  
  
“Okay, then... Let him in. I’m on my way,” Steve said, brushing his dusty hands on his shirt, and then brushing at the dust on his shirt. He was brushing his hands on his jeans when he finally made it to the foyer where Coulson as waiting with two other agents.  
  
“It’s nice to see you again,” Steve smiled, awkwardly holding out his hand, hoping it wasn’t too dirty. Coulson shook it without seeming to notice.  
  
“Good afternoon, Captain Rogers. We won’t be long. The Director thought it would be best to hand over some of your affects. It’s taken as long as it has mostly from trying to locate where you personal items had been stored and, well, trying to remove them from the Smithsonian registry without raising too much unwanted attention.”  
  
“My things?” Steve was surprised. He still had stuff after nearly seventy years? The two agents each placed plastic grey totes on the ground.  
  
“I believe the Smithsonian had documentation that it was donated in 1987 by Peggy Carter’s-” Coulson said, looking over a file he was holding.  
  
“Peggy?” Steve’s head snapped up from looking at the location documentation printed on one of the crates.  
  
“Yes, Captain, Peggy Carter’s estate.”  
  
Estate? But that meant... “Oh.” She was gone. She’d been gone for a while now. Steve swallowed and looked down at the totes, not sure he wanted to meet the eyes of the men standing there.  
  
Coulson cleared his throat. “We need to be on our way, Captain. Looking forward to working with you in the field in the future.”  
  
Steve mumbled his thanks, shaking their hands as he politely saw them out the door. With a heavy heart, he sat down cross-legged between the two crates, flipping open the top of the one to his right. Inside was tattered mess of synthetic carbon-polymer cloth and leather, belts and pouches--the remains of his uniform. It looked like they had to tear it apart, peel it from him. The helmet was still intact, blood stained right along the front rim from hitting his head in the crash. The leather of his boots was cracked and worn from freezing for so long and thawing. Everything in the tote had a smell of mold and frostbite, like the ice melted away to water and just sat, but the scents of battle, of gunpowder and blood, lingered underneath. The ammunition had been emptied from the pouches, most anything else in them had decayed or wasted into a soggy mess in the defrost.  
  
But there!  
  
He grasped the cool edge of his shield, hauling it out gently so the items resting inside it tumbled into the crate and not on the floor. It was the only thing salvageable in the whole container, not ding or a scratch to it. Well, the paint was scuffed from battle, as it tended to happen from time to time, but the metal was still as perfect as always. Vibranium was amazing that way, Steve smiled with pride.  
  
He settled his shield against his thigh as went for the other tote, flipping open the top of the battered container and looking in. The smell of dust and musty moth balls hit him, left him coughing, reminding him of the untouched rooms he aimlessly cleaned for something to do. On top was his dress uniform, the browns faded to brighter shade and the brass tarnished, but still perfectly pressed, like it had been on display or laid out on a bed waiting for him to change back into it. He started pulling out the books, yellowed and brittle, but they were his, the ones he had packed with him during bootcamp. Tucked under them were a few sketchbooks, bent and scuffed with pages falling out; it was always hard to keep a decent sketchbook to hold together traveling between battlefields. There were maps with Hydra checkpoints, diagrams and designs with Stark’s--Howard’s--distinctive scrawl.  
  
And a box at the bottom, slightly crushed, with photos. Sienna toned snapshots of faces he remembered like yesterday but lost so long ago. He and his men posed against the Hydra tank they’d stolen from the compound, with Dugan waving his bowler hat proudly from where he sat on the turret. Stark with his hair a mess, grease on his face, but smiling as he took apart Hydra equipment for its secrets. Colonel Phillips not looking pleased at all to have a camera in his face, but had that man ever look pleased? Bucky, in his winter coat, leaning against his gun, smiling smug--the very last picture taken of him.  
  
And Bucky’s dogtags. They rattled as he picked them up from the bottom of the crate, clanking together as the cord unraveled around them. He traced the name there, the name of his friend, his brother. Steve wrapped the cord tight around his fingers, and his fingers tight around the cool aluminum, letting the metal edges bite into his palms. He closed his eyes and tried not to remember Bucky falling, tried not to think about how Bucky was found at the bottom of the mountain side. He tried not to think, but it didn’t push the pain away.  
  
The only thing missing from both containers was his compass, with its picture of Peggy.  
  
Peggy...  
  
Steve sat back, both totes open beside him, as he pulled his shield to his lap, hugging it to his chest as best he could. He pressed his forehead to the cool metal, the feel a contrast to the burning in his face as tears tracked down his cheeks.  
  


*****

  
  
A normal dream plunged easily into a nightmare, ice frosting his skin and a phantom burn of cold in his lungs. Steve woke up coughing, gagging for air, grasping for Peggy--she was just on the other side of the ice...  
  
His eyes burned as he fought his way out of his twisted sheets, stumbling into the hall and as far away from sleep as possible. Despite the darkness of the hallways, he found his way to the French doors that led out to the estate’s courtyard, out into the familiar heat of New York on a summer’s night.  
  
Still reeling from dreams, unsteady on his feet, Steve’s foot caught on a rock bordering the walkway and sent him sprawling, his serum granted agility and grace failing him for once. He might have yelped as he landed hard on his shoulder, but he was wide awake now looking up at the murky brown-black of the city-lit night sky. In the distance was the sound of the city moving around the estate, of trucks with squeaking brakes, cars honking, and sirens. The air was still around him, the four walls making a stagnant prison of musty earth and leafy greenery.  
  
Steve heard the sound of a latch moving, and light seeped into the courtyard as a door swung open on creaking hinges. A shadow with a ghostly glowing chest loomed in the doorway, slipping away to reveal Stark as he stepped out into the night.  
  
“See, I knew I wasn’t crazy,” Stark said, like he was continuing some sort of conversation, maybe talking to his robots again.  
  
“It depends on the definition, I believe, sir,” came the voice of Jarvis, following Stark from beyond the doorway.  
  
“Ah, well, then who the hell wants to be sane?” Stark was muttering as he walked across the grass. He stood over Steve and held out a hand. “Alright there, Rogers?”  
  
Steve let out a whoosh of air and felt his face burn. “I, uh, guess.” He took Stark’s hand, the grip firm and a little greasy, and let himself be hauled to his feet. He rolled his shoulder, the one he landed on, and was satisfied that he hadn’t injured himself.  
  
“Can’t sleep?” Stark asked, straight to the point. Steve let out a deep breath with a nod. “I can understand that. Some nights are harder than others. Sometimes you just gotta learn not to sleep.”  
  
It startled a laugh out of Steve. “Is it that easy?”  
  
Stark shrugged. “Coffee helps. And Red Bull.” He was quiet a moment, using that intense focus he liked to stare at Steve with, before turning his head and smiled. “Company helps, too. Come on.”  
  
He put a hand on Steve’s shoulder and guided him to the door and into what appeared to be a garage, the smell of metal and oil stinging his nose as the overhead fluorescent lights burned at his eyes. Lining the doors to the driveway were seven cars, six of which had makes and models that Steve had never seen before. He recognized right off the deep red of the Cadillac Sixteen roadster, remembering Stark--Howard--driving away from the secret facility that day. He had offered Steve a ride back to anywhere he wanted to go, said that driving fast sometimes cleared the mind...  
  
Along the back of the garage was clutter and equipment. Wall screens scrolled data and revolving diagrams. A pair of red and gold metal boots sat on a workbench, one half dissected to its metal under-frame. A suit of armor (not quite like a knight’s armor but something that seemed more streamlined for the current century way of things) stood on its own in a display case, the lights of the case showing off the deep reds and golds--the same colors of the Cadillac roadster.  
  
The equipment was all new, fancy and newfangled, and the garage lacked the assistants and other help that Stark--Howard--had at the headquarters. But the clutter, the projects, the details, and the obvious hard work--it all screamed STARK. A feeling like familiarity, a comfortableness that Steve missed settled in his chest, like coming home to a well remembered haunt. Half expecting for Colonel Phillips to charge in and demand, “What the hell are you ladies standing around for? We got a war to win,” Steve stood up straighter and felt under-dressed in long sleeves and sweatpants, the clean lines of his service uniform or easy fit of his battle costume lost to him.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Stark--Tony--said, and the difference in the voices and clothing pulled Steve back into the present. He watched as Stark patted his shoulder again, as if brushing dirty away, only find that he left a filthy hand print on Steve’s shoulder, smearing it somewhat. Stark then absently wiped his hand at his shirt, a grimy white sleeveless undershirt, leaving a grey smudge along the hem. His father would have been in a button-up shirt, slacks, a tie, and suspenders, maybe a lab coat. Not this sweaty, greasy mess in dark denim and an oddly glowing tank top, the metallic sheen of graphite lubricant painting a grey swath across the bridge of his nose, along his high cheek bone.  
  
“Are... you working?” Steve asked, eyes following Stark as he stepped toward the dismantled metal boots.  
  
“Mhmm, no. Playing, actually,” Stark grinned a little lopsidedly. “Probably not your idea of a good time, but it keeps me busy.” He perched himself on a high stool near the workbench, his busy hands drumming at his lap. “It’s not as high tech as my workshop back in Malibu, but if Dad worked some of the miracles he did here, I can still manage.”  
  
“Looks like you probably did some upgrading.” Steve walked further into the garage, his eyes glancing over the display panels on the walls, trying to comprehend what he was seeing in the designs and layers and statistical readouts.  
  
“Seeing as how he hadn’t set foot in here since sometime in the 80s?” Stark shrugged. “The stuff I cleared out was archaic by the standards I work with. Still, it would have probably been space-age to you.”  
  
Steve was so used to looking over still maps and blueprints, the ever shifting screens made things a little more difficult to grasp at a first look. He had stopped in front of one screen near Stark, recognizing images in a looping overlay of layers onto a model of a male figure. Pouches, stripes, a helmet, a star on the chest--his old battle uniform.  
  
“That’s--,” Steve started, touching the screen only for it to bring up detailed readouts of his shield, the part of the image he happened to tap.  
  
“Your uniform?” Stark smiled. “Speaking of something archaic.”  
  
Steve frowned, he was proud of that suit. “Hey, it got me through the war. Your dad made it.”  
  
Stark made an agreeable sound, leaning an elbow on his workbench, his restless fingers scratching his chin. “Not that it wasn’t suitable, then. It served it’s purpose for the time. But I can make it better.”  
  
Not the shield, Steve thought to himself, because Steve was already sure that was as perfect as it got. But Stark probably didn’t know that and finding out will probably knock the smug grin right off his face. “We’ll see,” is all he said with a polite smile, and watched Stark’s eye flash with the challenge.  
  
And then Stark was off the stool fast, moving to a cabinet and stripping his shirt along the way, his back to Steve. He pulled out a black teeshirt and shrugged it on before moving to the Cadillac. “Come on,” he waved, throwing open the driver’s door and sitting inside. Steve could see Stark leaning, and then the passenger door popped open. “Get in. Field trip.”  
  
Steve hesitated. “This isn’t... going to be like the last one, is it?” His nerves still jangled from icy dreaming, and though the heat would be nice, the crush of bodies at a club wouldn’t help curb the edge he still felt.  
  
“I know a nice gentleman's club around where we’re headed, but that’s not what I had in mind.”  
  
Heat flared up in Steve’s face for a moment, trying to push back the memory of Bucky and the commandos dragging him into one of those such places of ill repute, the memory of embarrassment and their laughter and of the following day of shame where he couldn’t seem to look Peggy in the eye.  
  
“Just get in the car,” Stark said, and Steve could almost see him rolling his eyes. “Hurry, before I can think of something more prurient to debase you with.”  
  
Sliding easily into the passenger seat, Steve looked about as Stark started the engine. The chrome and panels of the dash that he was expecting had been upgraded to more of Stark’s fancy screens and dials. He watched as Stark belted himself in, and after brief confusion, Steve managed to do the same.  
  
“Jarvis, give us something Rogers here would like,” Stark smiled as the top of the roadster started folding back on its own.  
  
Steve watched how the roof disappeared behind the seat, struggling against the seatbelt. “You have, uh, Jarvis in your cars, too?”  
  
“Jarvis is a lot more mobile than you’d think,” Stark said. He reached out to turn the radio up. “Beach Boys. Nice touch, Jarvis.”  
  
“I try, sir,” was the muted response.  
  
One of the garage doors opened and off they went, pulling out onto the street that was surprisingly (to Steve) busy for that time of night. Stark didn’t seem to pay mind to things like speed limits, whipping about other cars in the antique vehicle, the top down letting the wind ruffle their hair. The almost pleasant jangle of music was fun and catchy, reminding him of the few times he rode in the backseat with some of Bucky’s friends as they cruised for gals like a bunch of rowdy cads. It made him long for a coke and a burger, for a slap on the back and laughter from an old pal.  
  
The humidity of the night air was heavy, though not as heavy as the still courtyard at the mansion. It left a faint dampness to Steve’s skin and hair as it flowed over the windshield to blow at his face, the smell of car exhaust wafting along it to make him a little lightheaded. Starks fingers drummed incessantly on the steering wheel and stick shift, an off-beat rhythm that faded in and out of the music and the sound of cars around them. And all around them were the unfamiliar buildings and skyscrapers that sprouted and changed in near to seventy years.  
  
If Steve hadn’t been frozen (survived and gone home, maybe with Peggy, to a victory, to a proud America), he would know these songs and bands Stark played for him and know the companies of the cars, if not the actual models, and have an idea where they were actually driving. It wasn’t overwhelming like showing up in a foreign land like England or Germany to fight; just half a world away and he could make it back home if he survived the battles and some culture shock.  
  
There was no home to go back to now. No matter what happened.  
  
No matter...  
  
A song by a fellow named Elton John (Stark swore that wasn’t on any of his playlists and that the pick was all Jarvis) ended to begin a tune that Steve knew quite well from radio and USO tours. “The Andrews Sisters...” Steve smiled. “I saw them once in Italy. Great gals.”  
  
A smirk lifted the corner of Stark’s mouth and he shifted gears. “Jarvis, take this song as a starting point and build a playlist for Rogers. None of that Elton John stuff. Our boy here likes his swing and jazz.”  
  
“You don’t have to-” Steve started, but Stark shook his head.  
  
“You’re smiling. If it’s nostalgia you want, I’ll let you have that.”  
  
Steve wanted to say something of thanks, but a familiar sight loomed in the skyline and Steve lost his voice like he’d been socked in the chest.  
  
“Brooklyn Bridge...” he finally managed to croak, looking up at the suspension cables spanning like steel yarn and strings of electric-light pearls from the granite and limestone towers.  
  
“So you do know where you are,” Stark said, sounding a little amused. Steve was sure if the rascal wasn’t driving, he’d be giving him that searching stare he fixed Steve with so often.  
  
“Well, the lights are new to me, but I’d know this bridge anywhere... It’s...” It’s home, Steve thought.  
  
“Okay, so how about you give me addresses, street names, something? Brooklyn Bridge is still here, so maybe some other things you know would be? Take me on a sightseeing tour of your city, Rogers.”  
  
“Steve,” he corrected Stark. “It’s Steve.”  
  
Dark eyes flicked over to Steve before turning back to the road. “Tony.”  
  
“Now that we’re on friendly terms...” Steve grinned.  
  
Since Steve didn’t really remember much of where his parents had lived when he was born, he rattled off the location of the orphanage he grew up in. In the place of the old Gothic home for boys (where Steve spent his youth and met Bucky for the first time) was a faceless commercial office building. The art school where Steve took classes (“You’ve got a gift, so do something about it,” Bucky had told him) had become a series of specialty shops and a tanning salon. The diner where he washed dishes to pay for art classes (“Don’t let’em touch the food. Who knows what’s ailing’em.”) was now a coffee shop. The boarding house where Steve and Bucky shared a room (“We can make it on our own, they’ll see.”) was a parking garage. Along the way, when he recognized the street names and blocks, he pointed out the spots here and there were he had taken a beating.  
  
Stark--no, Tony--didn’t show much of an expression other than concentration on the road, but Steve still saw his jaw tense when he pointed out the skirmishes. “So, you were a little guy with a death wish?” he finally asked.  
  
“More like... if they were picking on me, they weren’t bothering anybody else,” Steve said, passing by another alley where Steve pointed again.  
  
“I’m guessing you were in the hospital a lot?”  
  
“I had asthma, rheumatic fever, heart palpitations, a bunch of other stuff. I was in the hospital a lot anyway,” Steve shrugged.  
  
“So concussions and broken bones were just an added bonus?” Tony frowned. “Please tell me there was a nurse working there you were hot for. Why else would you do that to yourself?”  
  
Steve shook his head. “No nurse. Just... bullies. I don’t like them. Like I said, if they’re picking on me-”  
  
“They’re not pounding on others, I got that,” Tony finished for him. “And here I thought they were all lying.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
Tony smiled ruefully. “The comics. Newsreels... My dad.”  
  
Steve snorted. “Comics and stuff? That was all propaganda. You know, to buy war bonds.”  
  
They drove around a while longer, stopping at three different convenience stores before Tony found what he wanted; fake roses attached to boxes of cheap chocolates. Tony’s hands were a flurry as he shed the plastic and boxes away from the flowers, pitching them in the trash with a muttered, “Trust me, you don’t want to eat this crap.” He handed over the plastic stem and waxed fabric roses to Steve as he climbed back into the driver’s seat.  
  
“It’s not much, but there’s a snowball's chance in hell right now to find a florist open at this hour,” Tony said as he pulled away from the curb.  
  
Apparently the one address that Steve was avoiding on their tour was one that Tony actually knew, and knew very well. A nondescript building housing minor government offices took up the place where the facade of Brooklyn Antiquities once sat. Steve wondered if they had ripped out and bulldozed over the secrets inside the basement or if they were still there hidden away. Did the front lobby still smell like old books and mothballs? And the halls behind it smell acrid like Brasso polish and sterile cleaners? Did the sounds of gunfire still haunt this place, like it sometimes haunted his dreams?  
  
Tony pulled up along the curb and cut the engine, Duke Ellington slipping into silence. He plucked one of the false flowers from Steve’s hands and twirled it between his fingers, looking it over. “Dad used to come out here once a year, whenever he had the chance, always with flowers. Lilies. Peace lilies. He never told me why, not until he was too... Not until he couldn’t do it himself. All he told me was that a man died here, trying to make the world a better place. And that a hero was born.”  
  
“Dr. Erskine...” Steve said softly. He couldn’t help the smile on his face, though sad it was. He could just remember the soft tones of his gentle accent, his sad and earnest eyes. “Project Rebirth was here... Dr. Erskine was the man that made it possible for... me to be here some seventy years later.”  
  
“Captain America started here.”  
  
Steve swallowed. “Yep.”  
  
Tony got out of the car and came around it to the sidewalk, where he could stand in front of the building. Steve joined him, watching their reflections made by the street lamps on the dark glass windows. They stood quietly, Tony twirling the fake rose so it brushed his lips and nose, while Steve stared at his bare feet. The silence was reverent between them and Steve was grateful that Tony seemed to understand. Dr. Erskine deserved more than the thanks they were giving him, but at least he wasn’t forgotten.  
  
With a very quiet “Thank you,” Tony leaned his flower against the building, out of the way of the door and any foot traffic. It looked lonely against the porous white brick of the building, so Steve added his, watching it slump a little against Tony’s. They waited a few moments more, listening to the city around them, hearing the birds begin to chirp.  
  
When they climbed back into the Cadillac, dawn was just beginning to brighten the sky.  
  


*****

  
  
Steve still felt ridiculous talking to the ceiling like it was a real person.  
  
“Um, Jarvis. Is Tony home?”  
  
“I’m afraid not, Captain Rogers. He has a full schedule of meetings for the day. Is there any way that I may assist you in his stead?”  
  
Steve brushed away some cobwebs and coughed on some dust. “Do you mind, uh, playing some noise?”  
  
“Would you like me to run through your playlist, sir?”  
  
“Those are... my songs, right?”  
  
“They are, sir.”  
  
“If you could, please?”  
  
“Certainly, Captain.”  
  
The jumpin-jive tunes of Count Basie filled the room and set the pace for Steve’s dust mop that afternoon.


End file.
